


Rage Against the Ineffable Machine

by flibbertygigget



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Music, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff, Gen, Introspection, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:20:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27917374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flibbertygigget/pseuds/flibbertygigget
Summary: December 2009.Crowley decides to make one of the more rubbish bits of Christmas more fun by manipulating the singles charts. Rage Against the Machine have an unexpectedly profitable month. Aziraphale finds himself reluctantly enjoying punk rock.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20
Collections: Celestial Harmonies: Cider & Cocoa





	Rage Against the Ineffable Machine

**Author's Note:**

> Originally appeared in Celestial Harmonies: Cider and Cocoa zine.
> 
> And, yes, Rage Against the Machine actually did get the Christmas number one crown in 2009. Any demonic intervention, however, is purely fictional 😆

_ December 2009 _

Aziraphale put another log on the fire and sat back in his armchair with his cup of cocoa, warm and content in spite of the rapidly falling snow outside. It had taken fewer miracles than the angel had expected for the Dowlings to keep their gardener over the winter.

It was a completely illogical decision, of course, but humans were prone to making illogical decisions at times. It helped that Mr. Dowling was away far more often than not, and Mrs. Dowling was the type of person with no one to confide in who she didn’t have on her payroll. Brother Francis was the ideal sort of listener, openly sympathetic only to the person speaking to him and helpful only as far as that person would like. Nanny Ashtoreth, on the other hand, always told blunt truths with a devilish smirk playing across her lips. If she hadn’t been the only person who could calm Warlock down when he was upset, she would have fallen out of favor with Mrs. Dowling long ago.

It had been a year and a half since the birth of the Antichrist and almost that long since Aziraphale and Crowley had donned their disguises and begun their plan to thwart the apocalypse. Not that Aziraphale felt as though he had done much thwarting so far. Crowley tried to bring the baby Antichrist out to the garden as often as possible, but there was no competing with the influence of a nanny. Warlock was cared for by Nanny Ashtoreth for all of his waking hours and a significant number of his sleeping ones, and the result was a child who was far more comfortable with Hell’s representative than with the angel who lived in the cottage at the edge of the Dowling property.

“Fuck’s sake, were you the one to miracle up a snowstorm?” Speak of the devil - or the demon, rather. Crowley slammed the door shut behind him, snarling at the snow that had drifted through. He kicked off his heeled boots and shed his faux-fur coat, shivering all the while. “It looks like a bloody winter wonderland out there.”

“I did not ‘miracle up’ anything of the sort,” Aziraphale said serenely. He took the knit woolen blanket from his lap and threw it at the demon. Crowley grumbled about the color (a lovely light taupe), but he wrapped it around himself nonetheless, curling up on the squishy sofa he still wouldn’t admit to liking. 

“Well, there shouldn’t be snow this far south,” he said. “I specifically decided to live in London because we never get snow-”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration.”

“- and we’re practically in Sussex, so by all rights we should be having  _ less _ of this - this  _ rubbish _ .”

“There, there,” Aziraphale said, blissfully unaware that nobody had ever said ‘there, there’ in the history of the world. “I’m sure it will melt away soon enough.” 

“And it’s not just that,” Crowley said, “it’s all this  _ Christmas _ .”

“Why, my dear, I thought you liked Christmas,” Aziraphale said, handing Crowley a steaming mug of black coffee. The demon curled his hands around the mug and brought his nose almost close enough to touch the surface of the liquid.

“I like the rubbish bits of Christmas,” Crowley said. “The traffic jams, the packed stores, the passive aggressive family dinners, the commercialism. And all the sinfulness is made ten times worse because people feel as though they ought to be  _ happy _ . There’s greed, there’s avarice, there’s self-righteousness enough even for your lot. It’s  _ invigorating _ . What I hate, however, is the fact that it’s  _ Christmas _ , and whether you like it or not there are going to be traditions that mitigate the full soul-damning potential of the season.”

“For example?” Aziraphale said, hiding his smile in his cocoa mug.

“For example,” Crowley said, “the greenery, and the baubles, and the bloody fairy lights. Putting people in a good mood even when they ought to be feeling miserable. And, of course, there’s the  _ hateful _ tradition of Christmas number ones.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. He knew exactly where this argument was going. It was the same one they had been having for the past 5 years.

“I mean, the  _ existence _ of singing competition shows is bad enough, though the anger and envy they create has damned more than a few souls. I claimed that I invented them, you know, back when it was just Pop Idol. But X Factor,  _ X Factor- _ ” Crowley took a deep sip of his coffee. “X Factor represents everything wrong with the cookie-cutter, milquetoast music of today. There’s no fire, no showmanship, no  _ pizzazz _ .”

“I don’t think that anyone could say that the young people on those shows lack pizzazz,” Aziraphale said as neutrally as he could.

“What would you know? You  _ like _ that rubbish. Don’t think I haven’t seen you watching it with Mrs. Dowling while  _ I’ve  _ been stuck looking after the baby. You have no taste, either of you.”

“Be that as it may,” Aziraphale said, “it isn’t as though Christmas number ones are such a terrible tradition. Wasn’t that one of yours?”

“All the more reason,” Crowley said waspishly, “for a celestial being such as yourself to disapprove of them.”

“They’re just a bit of fun.”

“They’re just a bit of over-commercialized  _ trash _ is what they are. There hasn’t been a decent Christmas number one since 2000.” Crowley looked as though he was going to continue, but then he froze. Oh dear. Aziraphale recognized that look all too well.

“My dear boy-” Aziraphale started, picking up the coffee pot in a vain attempt to distract his old enemy.

“Of course,” the demon said slowly, “nowadays one would be surprised to learn that the Bob the Builder theme became the Christmas number 1 by legitimate means. One would expect it to have been a meme, in fact.”

“A… A  _ meme _ ?” Aziraphale said, not sure that he even wanted to know.

“Oh, you wouldn’t understand, angel. It’s internet culture.”

“But-”

“Which of course makes this all the more viable as a solution. All I need to do is find someone with the same burning hatred for Simon Cowell as I have-”

“He is rather popular, though-”

“-which shouldn’t be a problem. If we were in America it would be a different story, of course, but this is England. People have been thinking Cowell’s what’s wrong with music for years.” Crowley was grinning now, a proper devilish grin. “Yes, I’ll just find the right person, make a few sockpuppets to grease the wheels… Oh, this is going to be  _ fun. _ I just have to find the right song.”

“Crowley, if you decide to abandon our plan to  _ avert the apocalypse _ in order to  _ ruin Christmas _ , I’m afraid I will have no choice but to thwart you,” Aziraphale said seriously. Crowley just chuckled.

“You can try, angel,” he said. “You can certainly try.”

* * *

Aziraphale perched his reading glasses on the end of his nose and frowned at the headline of the paper. Being a celestial being, he didn’t truly need reading glasses, but he felt that they lent him a certain  _ je ne sais quoi _ as an antique book dealer. Crowley had taken the blanket and the sofa again, looking like a cat who knew that it was about to get the cream.

“But it says here that this Jon Morter fellow tried to rig the Christmas number one spot last year as well,” Aziraphale said.

“Yes, that’s what makes it perfect,” Crowley said, wriggling excitedly in a particularly snake-like manner. “I gave the push it needed to go viral, and it was a  _ quite  _ small push, but the humans did the rest all on their own.”

“But last year he suggested Rick Astley’s old hit-”

“Tried to Rickroll the whole nation,” Crowley said proudly.

“I… am not aware of what that means,” Aziraphale said. “But regardless, this new song - is it one of yours?”

“Well, now I  _ know _ you have no idea who they are. No, they’re on your side, angel, if they’re on either of ours.”

“But the name is, well, it doesn’t quite sound Christmassy, does it? Peace on Earth and good will and all that.”

“Oh, on the contrary,” Crowley said, “‘Killing in the Name’ by Rage Against The Machine-”

“Is  _ not _ Christmassy.”

“Is  _ so  _ Christmassy, Christmassy in the same way as  _ A Christmas Carol _ and - and  _ Die Hard _ . It’s  _ subversive _ .”

“This human you’re using for your wiles called the competition  _ X Factor bitches _ !”

“Okay, one, have you ever been on the internet? And two, I never claimed that this was going to be a wiles-free experience. I’m just in it to annoy Simon Cowell.”

“The X Factor single,” Aziraphale said righteously, “was donating its proceeds to  _ charity _ .”

“And you may find, if you bother to finish that article, that people are being encouraged to donate for this one, and to a better charity in fact.” The amount of offense in Crowley’s voice was perhaps less than becoming for a supposedly evil demon, though Aziraphale knew better than to credit the old serpent with  _ true  _ evil. Still, it took him reading to the end of the article to really believe that Crowley was telling the truth.

Well then. He might have to buy and listen to this single after all.

* * *

The last time that Aziraphale had wanted to buy anything that could be considered a  _ single _ , 45s were still in vogue. A quick perusal of the local stores’ music sections was enough to tell him that not only 45s but vinyl records in general had all but vanished, and even tapes seemed to be rather scarce. He had never found the need to use a CD, and there didn’t seem to be any of those by Rage Against The Machine in the nearest village anyways. Aziraphale came to the disquieting realization that he would have to download the song from the internet.

Now, Aziraphale was not aware that one usually has to go through all sorts of pain in the process of hooking one’s computer up to the internet. This is especially true when, strictly speaking, one owns an ancient computer that had been discontinued before WiFi existed as even a concept. Nevertheless, when Aziraphale booted up his computer and opened the never-before-used browser, he was greeted with internet speeds that NASA would have drooled over. He looked up the song, went to its Wikipedia page since that was the first result to come up, and found that there was a hitherto nonexistent function that allowed him to buy the single through Wikipedia and without any means of payment in sight..

He looked up the charity that the newspaper had said was being supported by the contender for Christmas number one. Once again, no credit card was needed to make a donation, and if the unexpectedly large amount of cash that the charity in question, Shelter, found in their bank account had been syphoned from various billionaires, well, that was Aziraphale’s business alone. It was only then that he finally opened the file and began to listen.

It was not the sort of music that he would say he preferred.

It was very loud, for one. The singing was less singing and more screaming. And as for the lyrics, well, you certainly wouldn’t be allowed to play that on the radio. He had to wonder how they planned to even reveal it as the Christmas number one if it did beat the latest X Factor offering. It was not the sort of thing that Aziraphale thought would put anyone in the Christmas spirit.

Crowley had said that Rage Against The Machine was on Heaven’s side if they were on anyone’s. There hadn’t been anything Heavenly in the music, but there  _ had  _ to be something he was missing. No matter which side they found themselves on, Crowley had never lied to him before.

So Aziraphale decided to listen once more,  _ really  _ listen.

_ Some of those that work forces, are the same that burn crosses _ _  
_ _ Some of those that work forces, are the same that burn crosses _

Well, he could certainly see the subversiveness that Crowley had been talking about. And the message, however crudely put, was certainly a sadly true one. Yes, he could see how the demon would see this as Heavenly work.

_ And now you do what they told ya _ _  
_ _ And now you do what they told ya _ _  
_ _ And now you do what they told ya _ _  
_ _ And now you do what they told ya _

And there was the anti-establishment aspect as well. The condemnation of blindly following the evil that plagued the world, the mocking of those who would stay lockstep with authority… Now that he was listening to the song more closely, Aziraphale could only question why Crowley would be so enthusiastic about the song. There was certainly nothing devilish here.

_ Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites _ _  
_ _ You justify those that died by wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites _

Then again, it wasn’t exactly Heavenly, either. It was loud and confrontational, and Aziraphale knew that at a certain point it became vulgar. More than that, though, the song was endorsing a point of view that was wholly, wonderfully human. The last thing Heaven wanted was for its angels to question the ineffable authority of God, but for humans their guides were all inevitably flawed. He envied that, sometimes, the ability to question without it being some flaw in oneself.

_ And now you do what they told ya, now you're under control _ _  
_ _ And now you do what they told ya, now you're under control _

Because there was something a bit, well,  _ sexy _ about it. Like all those rock ‘n’ roll stars that Crowley loved to emulate. There was something attractive about a bad boy, a rebel, someone who took no shit and had no hesitation about talking back when the world didn’t seem to be going precisely to plan (or to Plan). The point was, it wasn’t an angel’s place to be that sort of force in the world, but in the guiltiest and most self-indulgent part of his celestial being he could admit that he liked it.

_ Yeah! Come on! _ _  
_ _ Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me! _

Although, from a certain point of view, trying to influence the Antichrist and avert the apocalypse could be seen as doing just that. Being a rebel. Talking back to the ineffable.

_ Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me! _

There was a time when an angel would have Fallen for that.

_ Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me! _

Aziraphale was somewhat baffled by the fact that he hadn’t Fallen already.

_ Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me! _

But that was the trick of it, wasn’t it? He had decided, despite all that Heaven said, that the apocalypse was wrong. He had decided that Crowley was  _ right _ . And still, knowing all of that, he felt the same way. He still stood by that decision.

_ Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me! _

He stood by that decision. It was the first time he had really sat down and acknowledged that he stood by the decision, that there was any decision to be stood by at all.

_ Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me! _ _  
_ _ Motherfucker! _

Perhaps Rage Against The Machine was a Christmassy band after all, if they could bring a sense of peace on Earth to an angel who was defying Heaven.

* * *

The Christmas charts were announced on a Sunday, thankfully, which meant that it was Crowley’s day off from being Nanny Ashtoreth. It wouldn’t have been half as fun if Aziraphale had been forced to listen to the charts alone. To make things even better, it was snowing again, though this time Aziraphale would have had to admit that he had miracled up a cold front the previous night.

The fire was roaring, the cocoa and coffee was made, and the demon had once again taken both his wool blanket and his sofa. Aziraphale had even put up a small tree with blinking, multi-colored fairy lights, which had caused Crowley to glare and mutter about forced holiday cheer and sweatshops in China.

“Shouldn’t you be encouraging the latter, my dear, being a demon and all?” Aziraphale said.

“Shut up,” said Crowley. Aziraphale hummed, content with one-upping the demon, and fiddled with the ancient radio dial.

They had to sit through far more modern music than Aziraphale had listened to in years, but he was familiar enough with the current type of pop from the X Factor, so he didn’t mind. Crowley, on the other hand, squirmed and hissed and complained almost constantly, though Aziraphale did notice some unconscious head bobbing whenever another song by Lady Gaga came up. But it wasn’t after the last notes of “Bad Romance” had faded away and the first few notes of what the DJ had called the “unexpected number 2” started that Crowley jumped up from the sofa.

“Ha ha! Yes!” he yelled, pointing his middle fingers towards the ceiling. “Suck it, Simon!”

“The X Factor winner’s name was Joe McElderry this year,” Aziraphale said, trying not to laugh at the demon’s antics.

“Shut up, Aziraphale, you know what I mean.” Crowley was bouncing on the balls of his feet, looking openly delighted in a way Aziraphale had never seen before. “Fuck yes! X Factor, eat my-”

“This is a rather good song, really,” Aziraphale said, grinning when Crowley stopped his celebration to glare at him. But when the opening riffs of “Killing in the Name” started, Aziraphale couldn’t stop his foot from betraying him.

“Oh,” said Crowley with a slow, wicked grin. “Oh, you  _ like _ it.”

“I believe you were the one who said that this was one of  _ my  _ side’s tunes,” Aziraphale said stiffly. Crowley laughed.

_ Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me! _ _  
_ _ Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me! _ __  
_ Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me! _ _  
_ __ Motherfucker!


End file.
